Teenage girls, whether they’re spruiking bondage couture in Vogue or boffing men twenty years their senior in Woody Allen movies, are surely the most over-sexualised creatures on the planet.
Don’t say I don’t write about the important things. We’re very sad that this is the first year the Kardashians MAY NOT continue their spectacle/tradition of dressing up as the credits on Friends for their annual Christmas card. But dry those tears – let’s take a fond look back at their Kards of Yore (and Merry, Merry Christmas to YOU dear reader)
When I was eight, my best friend’s aunt converted to Mormonism and ran off to Utah, and after ten long years of silence she finally sent them a Christmas card of her new family. My friend showed it to me, and we gawped at this family with their, all seven of them in matching white t-shirts tucked into high-waisted jeans, each person was holding a gun.
They’re rarely the most expensive items in our closets, nor the most on trend. But they fit like a glove, and highlight our assets while minimising our…”crap-sets.”
But finding those pieces in the shops is as rare as a Donald Trump good hair day.
It’s a truth universally acknowledged that the French are the chicest people on the planet.
Their style has almost become a cliche in itself—I’m thinking of Target’s Jean Paul Gaultier collection: striped tops, capri pants and ballet flats.
Confession: somehow writing about minimalist dressing inspired a powerful urge to run out and toot suite and buy a whole lot more stuff (aka ‘essentials’). PS. That’s my gorgeous student in the main photo and former travelling pal in the second. Who says columnists are lazy?
Tell the truth. When you read about the New York art director who wore the same simple but stylish outfit to work every day for three years, didn’t part of you think it was an act of genius? No more mornings madly trying on every combination in your wardrobe. No more forcing yourself to wear the NQR pieces you bought on sale to ‘shrink into’.
When I got engaged, I was determined ‘not to be one of those silly bridezillas who lose their s*** over table-settings and colour schemes.’ Certain I was above such signs of the patriarchy as bridal anxiety, I channeled Mean Girls’ Amy Poehler ‘I’m not like a regular bride – I’m a cool bride!’
The celebrisphere was rocked last week when, instead of milking her wedding for flashbulbs and cash, a reality TV contestant opted instead for a small and intimate ambush wedding on a Mexican beach.
“We both felt strongly that our ‘love day’ should be intimately special,” said Stacey Keibler,Dancing with the Stars contestant and George Clooney’s ex. “Everyone was screaming and hugging and over the moon.”
But were Keibler and her new husband Jared “Not Clooney” Pobre showing atypical celebrity modesty, or were they just jumping on board with the latest wedding fad, faster than you can say “mason jar sangria”? While trend-casting websites Jezebel and the Huffington Post were first in calling them “ambush weddings”, that term carries negative connotations. Like Jessa’s wedding inGirls, it implies the person you’re marrying is so wrong, the only way to get everyone to act happy about the union is to ambush them with it. A surprise wedding, on the other hand, sounds delightful.
There are days when the world feels like a competitive, ego-driven nightmare. A world dominated by the glossy and superficial, where a decent ‘box gap’ (if you don’t know, don’t Google) is as highly prized as a safe place to sleep for the night. At these times I like to remember that, as a yoga teacher, I am blissfully free from the repetitive, ‘not good enough / better than’ thoughts that dominate less bendy souls, and that my ‘office’ is a bastion of peace, tranquility, and ylang ylang-scented bliss.
For some time now, I’ve not felt like a ‘proper woman’ when it comes to outfits. All around me I see ‘put-together’ women who know how to match shoes to skirts to fancy tops, and I know that somewhere along the line I opted to for safety rather than chutzpah.
When it comes to branded yoga gear, I’m a late adopter. For ten years I practiced Iyengar in the yoga equivalent of a crusty old boxing ring. No frills, just a few fun ropes hanging from the walls, and a teacher who had about as much truck with ‘yoga fashion’ as she did with us exiting Shoulderstand before ten minutes were up.